


Wonderful Part (of the Mess that We Made)

by Snowflake8



Series: OT4-verse [1]
Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Fangirl - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fangirl era canon, Menstruation, Menstruation Oral Sex, Multi, Vampire Sex, as usual, background Penny/Agatha, background Simon/Baz, body issues, eighth year, emotional smut, established polyamory, everyone is bi, except for Simon who is pan bc we all know about him and 'fit goblins', pre Carry On era canon, what you think is going to happen? is totally going to happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-18 21:18:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12396420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowflake8/pseuds/Snowflake8
Summary: Penelope shifts restlessly. "And you don’t have to, I know it’s—""Shhh." Baz’s hand is shaking a little where it rests on her thigh, though his voice is almost casual. “I suppose it’s taboo, no doubt I’d feel more strongly about it if I weren’t, oh, a fuckingvampireand all.” She laughs, and he smiles. “But as it is—”





	Wonderful Part (of the Mess that We Made)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [standalone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/standalone/gifts).



> Gentle reader: Have you read the tags? READ THE TAGS. 
> 
> Once again, mostly written pre-Carry On release. Someday I'll run out of WIPs that predate the book, but today is not that day. 
> 
> Thanks to my betas, and especially to [sevenfists](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists) and J, who were very encouraging in the midst of the depths of despair and abject terror. 
> 
> And a very happy (and belated) birthday to [standalone](http://archiveofourown.org/users/standalone/pseuds/standalone)! It was good to know that at least one person would want to read this... thing. 
> 
> For everyone else: Please. For the love of Crowley. READ. THE. TAGS.
> 
> Title from [Flaws by Bastille](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y3D-B56YgXQ), because tradition. (And because it's great.)

One morning, Penelope is curled up on her bed, feeling horrible, wracked with cramps. Every time she moves she can feel it _squelch_ between her legs, and she fucking hates it, it makes her want to sob.

“Oh Penny,” says Agatha, gently. “I don’t know why you even got dressed today.” She sits on the edge of the bed, strokes Penelope’s wiry red hair.

“I _want_ to go to _class,_ _”_ Penelope doesn’t quite wail. She’s in her tie and skirt and knee socks, and yeah, it was wishful thinking. Because she feels just awful, can’t even stand up right now without doubling over. Her cycle is completely screwed up, as always, though this time (after a couple months of nothing) it’s worse than usual, even. It started three weeks ago, heavy for ten days, then lightened up for a while till it was nearly gone, but now it’s like it’s started all over again, heavy heavy heavy. She hates it.

Agatha brings her a hot water bottle, because she is both the best roommate and the best girlfriend. “I’m so sorry, love. You know I would stay and keep you company this morning—”

Penelope clutches the red rubber to her abdomen and grumbles into her pillow. “I know, I know. But you have that presentation with Simon in Poetry and Lyrics.” Penelope raises her head slightly. “Do you have all your notes and things? Not forgetting anything?”

Agatha laughs and kisses her. “Yes, love. I’ll just have to make sure _Simon_ hasn’t.” Penelope grins a little and shakes her head, as a rapping sounds on the slightly-ajar door.

“Pens? Agatha? Are you ready for—?” Simon’s voice, through the crack.

“Oh, just come in already, Simon,” says Penelope. She probably sounds grouchier than normal, but it just snaps out.

The door opens, and it’s Simon and Baz both.

“Aww, Pens, you alright?” Simon says, and oh, his face is written all over with concern. It’s very sweet, and also she kind of wants to snarl at him for such an obvious question. _I_ _’m curled up on the bed and bleeding to death,_ she wants to say, _how do you think I am?_ But she bites it back, just shakes her head and presses her face back into the pillow, hiding behind her hair. (Her glasses dig into her nose and creak against the cotton pillow slip; she should probably take them off, she thinks absently.) Part of her wants them to make a fuss over her. Part of her just wants to hide in the dark.

They’ve all seen her like this before. They’ve seen a lot of things before, and even more this year. It’s been six months since that battle in the forest, when she and Agatha joined Simon and Baz (what a very odd group: the Mage’s Heir, his ex-girlfriend, his new boyfriend (slash roommate, slash vampire), and his best friend with the quiet crush on the ex-girlfriend who was also her roommate… Golden Dawn, no wonder things went south) and Penelope was hit by _that spell—_ when she’s feeling petulant she’ll insist, “the real name of it is _fututus coactus,_ and the goblins didn’t set it off on purpose, it was an interaction with the _landicafossa_ plants,” and one of the others, usually Agatha, will say, “just call it what it is, Penny: sex pollen. Keeps it simpler.” Then Baz will chime in, “yes, don’t tax poor Simon’s brain,” and Simon will say, “Oi there!” and tackle him. (Penelope knows she shouldn’t be so amused by the reliability of this exchange, but she is.)

So. Six months since the forest, and that spell, and the cabin afterward, and by some miracle everything didn’t fall apart after that. They woke up, naked and piled like baby rabbits in a nest, and Penelope thought she might die of embarrassment… but Agatha laughed joyfully, and Simon hugged her, and Baz helped comb out her snarled hair, and somehow it was all right. (Well, not just somehow. There was a lot of discussion, too. Sometimes that seems like the biggest miracle of all.) Since then, she and Agatha have been dating… but somehow the boys are often there, too. And then after they fought off that pack of particularly vicious ghouls four months ago, they’d all ended up huddled together in the girls’ room, and it had become abundantly clear that they’re more than just four friends anymore, or two couples.

Often enough it’s just soft kisses and semi-naked cuddling passed between them all almost without thought, an easy intimacy that is strangely unsurprising, after everything they’ve been through. But often enough it’s more than that.

“It’s just her monthly,” Agatha says, because occasionally she talks like a little old grandmother. _Monthly_ , thinks Penelope. Ha. She wishes. She’s going to arrange to see the doctor after this time, she’s decided. Her back aches, the cramps are horrid, sometimes she gets awful migraines though not at the moment, and she’s so bone-drainingly tired, probably has anemia or something.

The boys nod solemnly. They’ve seen her like this before. Simon usually fusses. Baz usually awkwardly avoids her, bringing in tea or soup and then retreating. Maybe it’s because of the time she started berating him for no good reason? She can’t even remember what it was about, something petty and unimportant, she still feels bad about that. She did apologize, and he seemed understanding, but he still stays out of her way during the worst of it. She feels a little badly about this.

“Anything we can do, darling?” Baz asks, a bit tentative. She does feel bad. But she just shrugs. Probably better not to say anything, not to risk her frustration and hormones getting out of hand. Gods, she hates feeling this way, almost as much as she hates how she can _feel_ the liquid pooling low, inside her. She’s going to bleed through her pad, going to stain her knickers and her skirt and maybe through the precautionary purple towel on her bed, even, through to her sheets, _again_ , and those loose-cannon, hormone-fueled emotions are gripping her again, squeezing— _hate this, hate it, you_ _’re so broken, fat and broken and ugly and unattractive and disgusting and unlovable…_ She tries to shut that inner voice up, but it’s so hard right now, when all her emotions are skewed and twisted and bulging toward the surface. Knowing that it’s temporary, that it’s not really real, that Agatha loves her (and so does Simon, and so does Baz)—she knows all this. But it’s hard to feel it right now.

Agatha is talking to them in a low voice—Penelope can hear something about the last time she took some ibuprofen (she has to wait a few more hours for the next dose, and it’s not really helping at all at the moment), and the fresh hot water bottle, and she sighs and stops listening. If only she could sleep through it all. But she’s restless, and the aching in her belly and her back is not very conducive to rest.

“I’ll stay,” she hears Baz say suddenly, and she peeks out through her hair. Again, looking tentative. “In case she needs anything, I mean,” he looks over at her, “if you don’t mind, Penelope.”

She shrugs again, but that feels inadequate, because she really doesn’t want to be all alone with her thoughts right now. “If you don’t mind, Baz, that would be... and I’ll try not to snap at you.”

Simon grins. “Feel free if he deserves it, though.” And then in a stage-whisper at Penelope: “And he always deserves it.”

“Oh, shut it, you,” drawls Baz, looking unimpressed. “I don’t suppose you remembered the jump drive for your presentation.”

Simon looks panicked, rooting through the box he’d set on the desk, while Agatha groans, “Oh, Simon, we need to leave _now_ _…”_

“I know you didn’t, because I saw it on your desk when we left the room,” continues Baz, and produces it with a flourish.

“You pillock,” grumbles Simon, snatching it and setting it in the box before kissing Baz shortly, while Agatha snickers.

“Come on, then,” says Agatha. She kisses Penelope gently before picking up her own satchel of supplies, and then pauses to whisper something into Baz’s ear that makes him raise one eyebrow. “We have to go set up, Simon.” Simon follows her out with a called, “Feel better, Pens!” and shuts the door behind him.

Just her and Baz in the abruptly silent room now. Midmorning sunlight filters in through the curtains, and Penelope can’t decide whether she has the energy to be annoyed at the brightness. Probably not, she thinks, trying to hide a groan as she shifts a little. Her muscles hurt, and she can feel that squelch again, and it makes her skin crawl. To try to distract herself, she looks up at Baz, and tries to smile.

“You don’t _have_ to stay, Baz,” she says. “I’m not very good company right now, I don’t want you to be bored.”

He shrugs and gestures to his messenger bag on Agatha’s desk. “I brought a book. It’s a study period for me, regardless.”

“Oh, then—”

“But Agatha said your back is hurting,” he says.

 _My everything is hurting_ , Penelope thinks bitterly, but only admits, “Yeah, it is.”

He drifts over, in that elegant way that he and Agatha both have sometimes. She wonders if they teach it in some sort of old-blood family school, with manners and dancing and which fork to use when at a fancy dinner. “Would it help if I—” He offers his hands.

She hesitates for only a moment. Part of her is grouchy and weirdly resistant (as if she thinks she deserves this discomfort, and that’s just messed up, why would she think that?), but Agatha was giving her a massage last night (before they did other things), and it really did help some. “Yes, it probably would. If you don’t mind.”

Baz snorts. “Of course I don’t.” He sits on the bed next to her, gingerly. She should probably roll onto her stomach, but the bottle is in the way and she just doesn’t really want to move.

Baz doesn’t ask her to. After an inquiring glance at her face, he tugs her shirt-tails out of her skirt waistband and slides his hands up underneath, and oh gods, his cool fingers feel firm and good against her aching back. She sighs, biting back a groan, then laughs just a little.

“What?” he asks, hands moving smoothly.

“I was just… remembering that time at lunch, back in February….” She tries not to laugh harder, and Baz makes a curious noise. “You were arguing something, very animated, and Agatha and Simon and I all got a little… glassy-eyed. Watching your hands.” Long fingers, bony knuckles gesturing in the air, and yeah, they’d all been rather distracted.

Baz makes a noise, abashed and maybe the tiniest bit pleased. “Oh Crowley, yes, I recall. You all started _giggling_ suddenly, all _three_ of you, and I couldn’t fathom what was supposed to be so funny.”

Penelope laughs a little. They’d caught each other’s eyes, and they’d just _known,_ and burst out laughing. “If _I_ recall, we explained it later that night, didn’t we.”

She can hear the sly smile in Baz’s voice as he works his thumbs in along her lower spine. “If by ‘explain’ you mean, ‘pushed me into bed and ravished my poor digits, and then the rest of me,’ then certainly.”

Penelope laughs outright now, because she’s an easy touch for the way Baz plays with words and turns of phrase, though it turns into a groan as he uses the heel of his hand to apply pressure on the back of her hip.

“Right there?” he asks lightly, and does it to the other side. Penelope knows the sound she makes is probably obscene but it’s too late to worry about that. It feels too good to keep silent.

His other hand slides higher up her back, rubbing small circles till he gets to her bra strap, and then he pauses.

 _“Yes,”_ she says, before he can say anything. She tries to flail an arm around to undo it herself, but he tsks and pushes her hand away, quickly undoing the clasp. She sighs, almost involuntarily, as the pressure loosens, and Baz continues rubbing up over her rib cage, in along her shoulder blades, though it’s slightly awkward with her shirt rucked up and tight.

“You _might_ be more comfortable in pajamas, you know,” Baz says wryly, as he draws one hand out and rubs her neck from above, a finger teasing at her collar.

He’s right of course, and Penelope sighs and tugs at her tie, undoing the knot. “I was hoping to feel better so I could go to class—”

“Of course you were,” Baz murmurs, his voice impossibly fond.

Penelope snorts, pulls off her tie, and opens the top two buttons on her shirt, at least. She still doesn’t feel like moving around too much. Too uncomfortable; too humiliating. But this is a little better at least, and she can duck her head as Baz works both thumbs in under her collar, into her trapezius, just at the base of her neck. It’s good, but also sore, and she bites her lip.

It’s also a weird angle, with her curled up on her side, and Baz sitting up next to her, hunched over. “Do you want me to roll over, or…?” she asks him, looking up. He can’t be comfortable like that.

“You seem like you don’t want to move,” he says, hesitating.

“Well… yes, but I don’t want you to strain yourself either,” she says, frowning. _Maybe if he just..._. “Here,” she says, shifting back a little, and tugs him till he’s lying next to her, facing her. He tries to protest about only being able to use one hand now, and not being able to reach her lower back, but she shrugs it off. “It’s fine, Baz, don’t fret. You could just work on my neck again for a few minutes, you know.”

He subsides, stretched out next to her, propped up on one arm, and reaches the other hand around to the back of her neck. His fingers slide easily down onto her shoulder blades, and then work into the sides of her neck with careful, gentle pressure.

 _Massages are strange,_ she thinks. Sometimes it seems like more than muscle tension locked into certain spots. Right now, even with Baz’s care, he hits one that is so oddly tender that it makes Penelope’s chest ache, makes her wince and feel heat build behind her eyes.

He pauses. “All right, darling?” He always calls her darling, and it always makes her chest feel full of warmth. (He calls Agatha “dearest,” unless he’s trying to tease her, in which case he calls her, “my sun and moon and starlit sky,” and she shoves him.) (He calls Simon “git,” and “prat,” and “ponce,” and “oh _Chosen_ One,” in the most obnoxious snarky tones. And, whispered in bed: “ _my love, my love, my love._ ”) (She and Agatha always look at one another at this, and smile, and say nothing.)

Her body is so heavy, her back aches, her belly aches, her throat aches with ill-suppressed emotions, and she’s just so _tired_. She lets her head drop forward, her forehead resting against Baz’s collarbone, and sighs. She whispers, with just a hint of a whine that she can’t quite squash, “I just… I don’t _feel_ good, Baz.” Tears prickle at her eyes, stupid irrational tears.

She can feel his breath hitch a little, and he presses a kiss to the top of her forehead. “Oh, darling,” he says, and he sounds so hurt, it makes her feel bad, even worse. “I’m so sorry, darling, I wish there were something I could—”

She looks up, into his distressed eyes, and feels suddenly determined, _oh shut up,_ she thinks, and kisses him.

She can feel his intake of breath, catching, and then his hand slides up into her hair, still rubbing at the base of her neck and she breathes, “ahh,” before she pulls him closer, rolling just a little till his lean frame is half on top of her, a pleasant weight, both hands in her hair now, and kisses him deeper—deep and slow and warm. Perfect, and it just goes on and on until another cramp twists viciously through her belly and makes her pull back, wincing and shifting.

Baz freezes, for just a moment, and then pulls back, eyebrows raised in question.

“Echh, cramps,” she says, grumpy. Also, his nose is smudging her glasses, so she puts them over on the nightstand. The water bottle, lost in the shift between them, needs warming again, and she waves her ring hand towards the kettle in the corner. It’ll be a bit before it’s ready.

He nods, and then says, “Hold on.” Quickly and absurdly gracefully, he climbs over behind her and pulls her up against his chest, till they’re pressed together all down their length, his hands pulling firm into her lower abdomen. “Good?”

She considers, then adjusts one hand lower (but not _that_ much lower), and pulls it tighter. “Good,” she says. It does feel better, at least somewhat—the pressure and counter-pressure is relieving. She can feel her pulse against his fingers. But what about the kissing, she thinks, plaintively.

“Good,” he says, and nuzzles his face into her hair. She shivers, rolls her shoulders and hips back against him, angles her head so that he starts gently pressing closed-mouth kisses onto her neck and behind her ear. Faintly, she wishes that Agatha and Simon could be here, too, but….

“So,” Baz says softly, into her ear, “Someone told me that there’s another good remedy for cramps.” He shifts one hand, stroking it down along her thigh, gently, questioningly.

She catches her breath at the way her skin tingles, even through the gray wool skirt, and distracts herself by craning around. “Someone… oh Yeats, it was Agatha, wasn’t it.” Baz grins a little sheepishly, and Penelope remembers his raised eyebrow. “Is _that_ what she whispered in your ear, before?”

“Might have been something about, ‘orgasms are very helpful with cramps, or they were last night.’”

Penelope groans and laughs. Some people might assume that Agatha is shy and demure about sex. Some people might be very wrong.

Baz is still grinning, but also careful. “We don’t have to,” he says. “But if it would be helpful.”

It probably would be, but Penelope still hesitates, feeling awkward. “It’s just… messy down there, at present, you know,” she says, apologetically, and with some distaste. Agatha is one thing—she’s a _girl,_ she understands, she smiles and teases and is very, very good with her fingers. And last night they had a shower just before bed, but now it’s been hours, and….

Baz goes extremely still; Penelope has never known anyone who can go as cold-stone-like as he can. She tries to look at his face, but it is as expressionless as she’s ever seen it.

“I know,” he says, and his voice reveals nothing either, for a moment, before he blinks, and starts to inch away, saying, with some stiff apology, “that’s fine, we don’t, _I_ don’t, I mean, I can let you get some rest—”

“Basil,” she says, rolling on her back and putting a hand on his arm, “what—” Moving, she feels a little fluid leak out again, between her legs, and grimaces a bit at the sensation; also, she sees Baz’s nostrils flare for just a moment.

Her eyes widen. “Oh.”

Baz drops his gaze immediately, his whole body tensing next to her. “I’m sorry,” he says, quickly, “I’m sorry, I can go, I—”

“Basil,” she says again, just as quickly. “I don’t want you to go.”

He looks up. “You don’t? Are—are you sure?”

She almost laughs, shaking her head, trying to speak lightly. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant… I hate it. I feel like I’m kind of... disgusting. I thought it might gross you out.” She snorts, and touches his forehead, tracing his widow’s peak. “I didn’t even think about the vampire thing.” He’s staring at her, intently, but says nothing. “Sorry for that, I suppose. _You_ can’t ever forget it, it seems callous of me to—”

“ _No._ It’s… no.” He swallows. “It’s not callous.”

“Hmm.” But back to the point, though. “I’d rather you stay, Baz. And try this, this ‘remedy,’” she adds wryly. “But if it’s too… too nasty, or too…” she frowns dubiously at herself, “too hard for you, I suppose? Never mind, that’s ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” Baz seems genuinely puzzled.

Penelope tries to force herself to be rational. “I mean, I know that menstrual blood isn’t really inherently dirty, that’s all myths, but that doesn’t mean that people don’t get squicked out by it, and maybe you—”

Baz interrupts her with the pad of a finger against her lips. “I’m not,” he says firmly, and then blushes a little. “It—it smells like any other blood, to me. Maybe a bit… more rich.” The patches of pink on his pale cheeks go a little darker. “But maybe that’s just one more reason I should go.”

If she thought he really wanted to leave… but this seems like something else. “Simon never sends you away when he gets hurt.” She’s thinking of the last time Simon had a head wound—minor, but it bled like crazy.

Baz shivers slightly and shakes his head. “ _Simon_ ,” he says with shaky disdain, “is an idiot. And also hopelessly biased.”

“He just knows you, Baz. He knows you wouldn’t hurt him.” She puts a palm on his cheek. "I know you won't hurt me, either."

“I—but you—”

“Also,” Penelope says firmly, running her thumb over his mouth, tracing his jaw with it, “please note that _Agatha_ was the one who even suggested all this. And you know she would _never_ if she thought for even a _second_ you were dangerous to me.” (Agatha has a bit of a protective streak, to be sure; it makes Penelope shake her head, and also makes her cuddle up against Agatha’s side reassuringly.)

Baz closes his eyes tightly and leans into her hand. “You make a compelling point,” he says, but his voice is thick and he has to clear his throat.

“Of course I do,” she says, smiling. “I’m the smart one, remember?”

He laughs, and she pretends she doesn’t hear the choked undertone. “The _other_ smart one,” he faux-growls, and kisses her.  

She laughs against his lips, too, saying, “I’ll allow it,” and then stops his laughter with just a hint of tongue, and starts unfastening his shirt. He hums approval, and begins to return the favor; her abdomen misses the pressure of his hand, but thankfully she is mostly distracted by this whole shirt thing. Their ties slither to the floor; her shirt (and loose bra) disappear quickly, but his shirt is only hanging open, when she is distracted by both his chest and his enthusiasm for hers. The lack of breasts (that aren’t hers) is fleetingly sad, but Baz’s appreciation for her own makes up for it. (All three of the others can get quite silly when it comes to Penelope’s breasts, speaking of glassy-eyed. She doesn’t quite understand this, especially since she thinks Agatha’s are _spectacular_ in every way, but she tries to just accept it.)

And his mouth on her nipple definitely makes for an excellent distraction. He does something with his tongue and teeth that feels like an electric shock straight down to her cunt, which is already so tender and swollen that she whines and practically yanks his hand over, between her legs. She can feel him grin up at her as he obediently slips his fingers up under her skirt and down into her knickers.

Agatha is better at this, more deft (more practiced), but Baz is quick to respond to her sounds, to the way she shifts her hips and whimpers, and says, there, just, a bit, a bit higher, a, ah, mmm, and then she’s clutching at his hair, and straining against his hand, gasping and shuddering and reflexively trying to bite back her own sounds, her eyes tight shut as it washes over her.

Baz had slowed down in response, but now crooks his fingers again, experimentally, and Penelope whimpers—too sensitive for the moment—and puts her hand over his, stopping him. He freezes again, that more than natural stillness, and she tries to meet his eyes, but he's ducked his head a little.... She’s still panting, her heart still pounding, but she closes her fingers around his wrist, and carefully pulls his hand up. Out from under the gray wool, up nearer to their faces, till she can see it, even near-sighted as she is, see the blood in a thin wash over his pale skin, red and streaked brown, on his middle and ring fingers, a bit of it dark under his short nails. It doesn't smell too terrible, a little strong maybe, and she sort of wants to wrinkle her nose, but Baz is staring with a frankly indescribable expression on his face, like he's torn between bolting right out of bed, and lunging at her. She considers telling him to breathe.

Instead, she directs his hand closer to his mouth, till his fingers are just barely brushing his lips. His grey eyes cross for a moment, trying to track the movement, then stare instead into her brown ones, barely blinking. She can see his long dark lashes (why do boys always have the best eyelashes?), the dark grey rim around the outside of his irises, the paler grey and silver and glints of blue and gold closer to his pupils. His pupils which are enormous. She presses his fingers against his bottom lip and sees them leave a damp imprint there, sees his tongue flick out, and his teeth drag across his lip, pull it into his mouth. His eyes slide shut, and he shivers—she can feel it every place they are pressed together. She does it again, drawing the pads of his fingers across his lips, once, twice, till they fall open a little, and his eyes snap up to her face again, and stay there, intent, while she presses them into his mouth and he licks them off, slowly, deliberately.

When he’s finished, he lets out a shuddery breath. “I... I wish Simon were here. And Agatha.” He winces for a moment and looks at her, abashed. “Not because—”

“I know,” she cuts him off, smiling a little. His wrist is still in her grip, and she pulls on it again, this time letting it slide around to the back of her neck, where he obligingly begins to stroke the tiny curls at the nape, and she presses into it.  

“I would just feel… a little safer? If I knew they were here to stop me.”

“Do you need stopping?”

He hesitates.

She rephrases. “Do you _want_ stopping?”

He shakes his head immediately, a decided negative.

Well then. “I think I can stop you,” she says, and pushes on his shoulder (with her _ringed_ hand, and his wand is nowhere to be seen, is it), so that he leans backward till he’s pressed against the wall.

“Really,” she says, shifting a little, so that she’s leaning over him slightly, weight on her left elbow. She leans close and kisses him, stroking his head with her left hand. “Really—I think you’ll let me stop you. If that’s what’s needed,” she whispers, their faces so close together. And then she reaches down, between her legs, dips two fingers, and brings them up, slick and red.

Baz makes a choked sound, like he’s been stabbed.

This time he doesn’t wait for her to paint his lips; they part quickly and he puts out his tongue, just slightly. He almost bobs his head up, but she tangles her fingers in his hair, holds his head down just a little. He blinks at her, then takes her wrist in both hands, cradles it, and slides her bloody fingers into his mouth. His eyelids flutter closed, and he sucks at them fervently, his tongue circling her fingers, sliding along the webbing between them, exploring every crease, licking down over her palm where a little blood had dripped—and it makes heat twist in her belly. Well, that and the soft, soft sounds he’s making—she’s not sure he’s even aware of them, but they’re like tiny moans with every breath, and just… wow.

She can feel a tremor in his hands as he slows, the warmth of his breath as he pants against her fingers and draws them cautiously out of his mouth, scraping on his teeth. (His teeth don’t feel any sharper than normal.)

She eases her wrist away, and his hands drop down, boneless, twitching. He’s breathing hard, and his eyes are still shut. Her fingers are clean but tacky with saliva, cooling in the air now, and she slides her hand onto his cheek (Baz always loves that, and she can feel him leaning into it) and draws her thumb along his jaw.

“All right?” she asks quietly, and now he gives a real groan, shaking his head, not in negation but in a sort of amazement.

It doesn’t feel right to just let it all lie, at least not without giving him at least an opportunity to talk about it, however awkward she might be. She strokes his cheek, steady and soothing. “Was that the first… first time you ever…”

He turns his face, hiding it, but against her bare cleavage. He nods. She knew that, of course. Baz has told them before, haltingly—about the summer after fifth year when the bloodlust first started, about the dreams and the nightmares. About how they got worse when he and Simon finally got together, and after the cabin… and she’s seen first hand how he would wake up panting and flinching after a bad one. 

“It was good. It…” A pause, then his muffled voice continues. “I was afraid I would… get carried away.” Even muffled, his voice has a little shake to it.

“You didn’t, though.”

He doesn’t reply, just pushes his face harder against her chest. She slides her hand around, cradles the back of his neck, and breathes against his scalp, smelling cedar.

The kettle is beginning to make the faint, prewhistling sound; Penelope flicks her hand at it, turning it off. Baz finally pulls back, and he looks up at her like she can’t possibly be real.

“I got a little distracted, I’m afraid,” he says, pressing a palm to her belly. “How are you?” He nods vaguely toward the now-silent kettle. “Still need the hot water?”

“Well, yes, but maybe later.” She doesn’t want either of them to move, and grins a little. “You aren’t the only one who got distracted. Also, you’re more effective than the hot water bottle, and I think we are still far too clothed,” she says, smiling, and pushes at the shirt hanging off his shoulder.

“Always, as Simon would say,” Baz grins, and finishes shrugging it off. “But… did you want more? What do you want?”

“Well,” she says, very quiet, wondering if she should, wondering if it’s too much, “if you want….” She swallows. She’s terrible at this. Agatha can do a sexy voice like nobody’s business; Penelope just thinks she herself sounds ridiculous. “I mean it’s been weeks since, uh, since I, um, had any oral.” She manages to not squeak on the end but it’s a near thing.

Baz stares, swallows, then chooses to try to speak lightly, puzzled. “Weeks?”

She shifts, restlessly. “I know, my cycle’s fucked, as usual, it’s not really anything new, it’s just a pain, because normally I don’t want Aggie to go down on me during, because, well, all the blood and all that. And you don’t have to, I know it’s—” 

“Shhh.” Baz’s hand is shaking a little where it rests on her thigh, though his voice is almost casual. “I suppose it’s taboo, no doubt I’d feel more strongly about it if I weren’t, oh, a fucking _vampire_ and all.” She laughs, and he smiles. “But as it is—” Then he frowns. “But… only if—if you’re sure, Penny, I mean, if you’re uncomfortable about it, or—or afraid, or—”

She’s not having that, not for a second; she pushes up on her elbows and puts a hand on his.

“I'm not afraid, Baz.”

He takes a breath, with his eyes closed, and she can feel the tremor go through him, but at least he doesn’t protest. He looks at her again, carefully, and says, “But you are uncomfortable?”

“I don’t want to make _you_ uncomfortable.”

“And if I assure you that I’m not?”

She gets quiet, tries to feel out her own emotions, smoothed a little by the exertion and the orgasm. “I... I don’t _want_ to feel so uncomfortable.” With myself, she thinks. With my blood, with my flesh, like a millstone around my own neck, sometimes I hate it, sometimes I just don’t _want_ it. And I don’t want to not want it.

He nods, for all the world like he heard her say all that aloud.

They start to carefully shed the rest of their clothes; even though this has been going on for months already, Penelope still sometimes feels that default pull of shyness, the impulse to drop her eyes and not _watch_ the others getting naked. It’s so ridiculous she can hardly stand herself—but worse is the deep-seated, knee-jerk urge to… to hide. Or run.

The heat of the moment is one thing, but this is so _deliberate._ She concentrates on the buttons at her waist, awkward and fumbly. Self-conscious. Too-cool air on her bare breasts and shoulders, rolls of fat around her waistband, red marks where it always seems to pinch... She recognizes that hesitant feeling, how part of her doesn’t want to look up, doesn’t want to risk seeing...

 _No one_ is staring in disgust, she rages against it. That’s some fucked up toxic misogynist internalized _bullshit_ and you’re better than that, Penelope Bunce. She refuses to just let it get away with poisoning her brain, souring her feelings for Agatha and Baz and Simon with comparisons and petty, ugly whispers and doubts.

Some days it feels like a losing battle, but what else is new, honestly? They’re all experts at those by now.

So she lifts her pelvis and wriggles her skirt and knickers down over her big hips and kicks them off onto the floor, and who gives a shit if it’s awkward and ridiculous looking, if her hair is a mess and her tits are the opposite of perky and her stomach has stretch marks and there’s a smear of blood on her thigh, this isn’t a damned movie with perfect lighting and a crew of hair and wardrobe people setting you to rights between every shot. This is her _life_ , and anyone who doesn’t like it can just—

She looks up; Baz has knelt up further down the narrow bed, and has his gray trousers down low on his hips, but seems to have forgotten to continue for the moment. He’s staring at her, half-lying there in just her argyle knee socks, and he swallows, hard.

Baz, at least, doesn’t seem to mind.

So she winks at him, raising an eyebrow in her best Pitch impression, and he laughs, shaking his head, and lurches forward, not quite all vampire grace himself, kissing her through a smile, his cock hard and pressing against her hip, letting her slide her hands under his waistband and ease his trousers down till he can get them off.

They’ve done this sort of thing before, just not terribly recently, what with that fucked-cycle thing and all. Both the boys do get some practice in, so to speak: she and they took turns just last week, eating Agatha out for hours. (And Morgana, she’s so beautiful, moaning and cursing and a little wild, leaning back on the bed or kneeling over your face with her head back and eyes closed… gods.)

Agatha always talks, but Penelope tends to go mostly non-verbal, or at least she does when so much focus is on her, like now. It’s too much to think about—she can’t ever seem to just unhook her mouth from her brain, at least when she isn’t under spells of dubious consent.

Penelope sighs and leans back against the pillows as Baz kisses down, down, dragging his lips over her soft stomach, nuzzling the dark hair just under it, his hands kneading into her thighs and hips, gently. 

He’s a little nervous, maybe—he skips down and sucks wet kisses along her inner thigh, and rolls her socks down and off. Baz’s style tends toward the cautious anyway, but now he’s checking in with her constantly, glances, eye contact, soft touches as he settles on his elbows between her legs. Without her glasses, he’s slightly blurry, but she can still see him peer up over the mound of her belly, eyes big and pupils blown, and she almost laughs, and puts her hand on his head (ring tapping), and pulls, just a little. He nods and lowers his head.

Now she can’t see his face, just the top of his head, her brown hand against his dark hair. But of course she can feel—feel his cool hands, his shoulders brushing the insides of her knees til she lets her legs fall further open—his thumbs stroking up and parting her, and then that first little shock of wet, tender and slight.

She can’t help catching her breath, as if she’s surprised, even though—hardly. The tip of his tongue flicks against her clit, and she twitches a little—tiny tremors.

His head cocks to one side as he pauses for a breath, finger pads sliding. When he sighs, the breeze from it is a tiny frisson of cool—and then she can almost feel herself dripping, beads of wet condensing. A finger caresses gently, lightly; he licks it briefly and carries on.

“Here,” she says, and reaches to hold herself open with one hand, and he makes a sort of swallowed noise, lets her handle it for the moment, and presses closer, lapping soft and wet, and oh gods, it’s so good. When he skims both his hands up her body, the barest brushing sounds of skin on skin, up to cup her breasts, it’s even better. It’s always so… much, the strangest combination of relaxing and arousing, and everything else seems to feel amplified.

She stretches a little, traces her other hand up her front, cradles a breast and pinches at the nipple, almost experimentally. She makes a sound, and Baz echoes it, and then his tongue licks wide and wet, up, all over, in all the folds, and then… then he _hums_ , low and needy, and the rumble of it pressed into her is fucking _amazing_.

She loses a little time, eyes closed, drifting in waves of _good-yes-good_. She’s pretty sure she’s making embarrassing noises more or less continually; she knows that he is, and that those wet, absurd sounds as he alternates between sucking on her clit and licking into her would be ridiculous if she had even a single fuck to give right now. But she really doesn’t.

“All right up there, darling?” Baz’s voice sounds drunk and muffled.

She snorts, not even opening her eyes, and slings a knee over his shoulder, so that she can pull his face back in as a response. He just hums happily and goes back to it.

She can’t always come from this; sometimes it’s just too intense, or too diffuse, an all-over _good_ that never quite coalesces. But right now—all his half-wild, half-muffled sounds… and then he slides one long finger into her, just the one, the way she likes it, and strokes while he keeps tonguing and tonguing, and she can feel that hot line up through her belly glowing again, building.

The tension in her shoulders ratchets up; her spine bows, she’s panting, like this is work, laboring. Her hands are fists, opening and closing, one up on the top of her own head, one in Baz’s silky-smooth black hair, and then he makes a ridiculous slurping sound, and crooks that finger inside her just right, just there, and she’s coming, half-laughing even as her head is spinning, floating.

And Baz, Baz is moaning, low-pitched, and the vibration of it is almost enough to set her off again. He pulls away just enough to gasp, and mutter, low and desperate and helplessly, “More, fuck, please more, _please,_ ” and she makes a suppressed moan herself and contracts all her muscles again, feels another gush of hot fluid, and he whines and ducks in again, lapping and sucking and fucking into her with his tongue.

 It still feels incredible, and when she pulls him closer in (with the hand in his hair, with her heels around his back, closer, closer) he gasps and cries out suddenly, shaking against her, his tongue faltering, panting hot against her, and she should really be over this familiar sense of fucking _triumph_ by now, but she really isn’t.

She lets him lap at her softly for as long as she can, but finally it’s enough, or too much, and she whimpers and pushes on his forehead, twitching, letting her legs fall free around him. They gasp in tandem, Penelope with her head still tipped back in the pillow, Baz with his face pressed against her leg. She can feel his breath, humid against the skin of her thigh, and his cool cheek. She’s sure she’s warm enough for the both of them, a prickle of sweat in the small of her back. She’s pulsing and tingling all over and the cramps don’t have a prayer, at least for now.

Is it time for the cuddling now, she thinks, looking down, but Baz is maybe still recovering, so she doesn’t say anything yet, just sneaks a hand into one of his, intertwining their fingers.

Baz looks up. His cheeks are practically rosy (she feels a surge of intense satisfaction at the sight) and he has… a smear on his chin. Impressively, it’s only a small smudge. Penelope wonders if she should feel weird or ashamed about all this yet. But a brief check-in reveals that, no—the fucks have yet to return. (Maybe she can give all that a miss this time, just for a change of pace.)

“You have a little—” She touches her chin.

“Shit.” He ducks his face and rubs at it. The towel’s still down there, anyway. He doesn’t look up right away, and she runs her free fingers through his hair.

She can’t quite bring herself to ask if he’s had enough (is that rude? awkward? what would even be enough, in this case?), but she’s already opened her mouth, and what comes out is: “How does it taste?”

He laughs a little wildly into her hip.

“Sorry, too weird?” she says, lightly. She’s pretty sure she knows this sound: it translates to something like, _I can_ _’t believe you don’t think I’m creepy._ Which is a little better than _I can_ _’t believe you don’t think I’m a monster,_ though not by a lot. She squeezes his hand.

He looks up, staring at her, like she is a literally unbelievable creature, and that’s just ludicrous, considering that they fought a chimera again just last week. (Well, it was more of catch and release, really.)

“No, well, maybe, but—” He takes a breath. “Penny, I don’t have words.”

“Basilton Pitch, speechless,” she says, smiling, echoing something Simon said long ago.

He smiles back, shakes his head. “It’s… better.”

“Better? Than?”

He waves a hand idly. “Pick a thing.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Pick.”

Fine. “Steak?”

“Better.” His voice is absolutely certain.

She carefully hides her grin. “Buttered scones?”

He narrows his eyes at her, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “You seem to have me confused with someone else, and definitely better.”

“Blasphemy!” She gives it up and giggles. “Chocolate? Cheesecake? Pizza? Sunshine?”

“You can’t taste sunshine.”

“Maybe _you_ can’t,” she says, nonsensically, and he shakes his head and squirms closer.

“Better than chocolate,” he breathes, pressing his face into her stomach. “Better than anything.”

“Baz…”

“And _you_ _’re_ better than that.”

Great snakes, she has to stop him before he gets too soppy. She snorts. “Well, in that case, we’ll have to do this again.” He shivers, and she strokes his head. “I’m serious. I would say we can pencil it in but I don’t really know, it’s all so…” 

“Irregular?”

“Fucked up, I was going to say.” He looks up at her, eyes a little too sharp, though she thought her tone was normal. She sighs. “I know. It’s not supposed to be like this. It means there’s something wrong with me, and…”

“Darling.”

She doesn’t really want to _talk_ about it, not right now. “I mean, I’m going to make an appointment to see Doctor Noble about it. Maybe she can fix me, I mean, I hope.” 

Maybe, probably. She feels suddenly too cool, too exposed, and she wonders where the throw blanket is. The room seems very quiet, so she adds, “I just… I hate it. Sometimes I wish.”

Baz waits, fingers trailing over her thighs, the curve of her abdomen, but she doesn’t continue.

“I hope she can help you, because I’m sure it’s not good for you to be in pain all the time,” he says at last, slowly. “But…” He stops, leans in, and kisses her soft belly, below her navel. “It’s doing its best,” he says softly, running a hand slowly up her side, over her padded ribs, under a breast, back down, covering as much skin as possible. He whispers, “Your body is… doing its best, and it’s so _beautiful,_ ” he kisses her belly again, and she has to close her eyes against the sight (the reverence, the love), “I do wish you wouldn’t hate it.”

Penelope can only whisper, because if she speaks any louder her voice will definitely crack. “Agatha says that. Often.”

He smirks, but gently. “Agatha is very wise. Also, please don’t tell her I said that.”

“Git,” she says, smiling, and pulls him up for that cuddle.

 


End file.
